


Meet Me in Mirkwood

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Thorin, Recovery, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:11:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil's Council is meeting in Mirkwood. Thorin will be there. Bilbo will be there. And a lot of folks who don't want to see Bilbo hurt again... will be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pre-Council Council

Thorin stood on the viewing rock at sunrise, staring toward Mirkwood, watching the approaching crow. It was one of the regulars, whom he’d started to call Chiprock, because it always flew right over the offer of his outstretched arm to land on a chipped rock behind him. He sighed.

“Will you give me Bofur’s note, or must I pay you first?” Thorin asked rhetorically, jumping down from the rock. He approached slowly, knowing full well that Chiprock would hop around evasively until a tribute of dried fruit was paid. Then he’d peck away at it while the king untied the scroll from his leg. Thorin dumped a handful of treats on the rock, and carefully pulled at the ribbon around the rough leg. He flinched a bit when the bird gave a raucous squawk and a flutter, because if one pulled the ribbons too hard, one got a sharp peck.

 _I don’t know if Bilbo will attend the council. I told King Elrond that he should because he knows more about Orcs than any of us. I think he’s afraid to see you._

Thorin immediately whipped out a freshly sharpened charcoal pencil and wrote beneath it,

_Does he fear I’m going to scoop him up, toss him across my saddle, and gallop back to Erebor with him?_

He gave a grim little smile as he rolled the scroll back up. He was perfectly willing to do just that, but he doubted the Elves would allow it. It would be more to everyone’s advantage if Thorin could convince Bilbo to return freely. The scoop and gallop maneuver was more of a… back up plan. And right now, he offered it lightly, as a joke. But what he wanted was more information about Bilbo’s state of mind. 

The Council was scheduled to convene in four days, which meant that he had two days to prepare, and two days to travel. Hastily, Thorin went to tie the scroll back onto Chiprock’s leg, but having been paid (and having flown all night) the crow was in no further need of Dwarven company, and flew off. The king watched him go with irritation, and then went back to the rock to see if any other takers might flutter down. 

In the morning light, Thorin saw a small party of travelers coming across the plains from Mirkwood and his heart sped up just a bit. Then he reminded himself that Bilbo was still in Rivendell, and he could not be on the plains, coming toward Erebor. He gazed down for a moment, but could make out nothing of the travelers. Finally he lifted his tired eyes to see Ruffles, one of the more ragged-looking, ungainly carriers, flapping lazily in his direction. Oh, he hated using Ruffles. That bird took 8 hours. Still.

Thorin offered a small prepayment, which the bedraggled bird appeared to consider for a moment, and then finally accept. The king rolled his eyes at how choosy they’d become, and tied the scroll on the bird’s leg.

“Straight to Bofur, mind you,” he said. “The one with the hat,” and he gestured around his head, drawing a rough outline of the hat. Ruffles narrowed his eyes for a moment, and Thorin was certain the bird actually understood. Then it picked at the last bit of fruit and launched into the air, its black wings stretched wide and powerful.

Thorin watched it go, and then lowered his eyes to the plains again to regard the traveling party. At this point, it was hard to tell if they were headed for Erebor or Dale. There was a path worn from Mirkwood now that forked near the mountain. They hadn’t reached the fork yet.

The rising sun shone on the morning dew, and Thorin knew it was time to begin the day. He had to meet with his own council to ascertain who should go to Mirkwood, how much they should plan to contribute to any scheme of Thranduil’s, and how much of a down-payment the Elf would demand. They also would discuss just how much of a threat the Orcs constituted to Erebor (very little, frankly, with Mirkwood as buffer between them) and how much the Woodland Elves meant to them as trading partners.

Then he needed to meet with the human contingent from Dale, who wanted to travel with them, and consult. Thorin also needed to designate a chain of command during his absence and a contingency plan in case of his untimely death. Once again, his most reasonable suggestion was that Tauriel go with them, and Kili stay behind, for the same reasons he had iterated before. But it would be a battle.

The Dwarf King gave one last gaze toward Mirkwood, and then entered the mountain to get some morning coffee and meet with his advisors.

Thirty minutes later, they were all squabbling around the long dining table again.

Balin wanted Thorin to send Kili and Tauriel in his stead, and authorize them to speak for him. He was really quite set on Thorin never leaving Erebor unless and until a suitable heir was designated. 

Dwalin didn’t care, but if Thorin went, he wanted to go as protection, whereas Thorin wanted him to stay and guard the gates.

Kili was willing to go if Tauriel went, and not at all willing to stay or go without her.

Ori, Dori, and Nori all wanted to go and were eager to pipe up with conflicting opinions about whether they should contribute funding or personnel, or both, or neither, to any united force that Thranduil might suggest.

Oin and Gloin were of the opinion that the whole matter was the Elves’ problem, since the Orcs ranged the area between Rivendell and Mirkwood. After all, would the Elves care if Orcs were hunting around Dale and Erebor?? No!

Dain’s men, of course, all wanted Thorin to wait for word from the Iron Hills before setting out, to get the wise elder’s view on the matter.

The issue was not moving forward, for the sticking point was Thorin’s attendance. Of course, he intended to go, but Balin argued so urgently, he felt obligated to put the old dwarf’s fears to rest. But he couldn’t, because in fact, Balin was right, except that… this wasn’t a dangerous mission. Not like the rescue party Thorin had contemplated weeks before. This was a mere gathering of kings (or their representatives, Balin quickly pointed out. Dain probably wouldn’t go.) Thorin heaved another sigh.

Suddenly, the entire rowdy meeting was interrupted by Bifur, of all dwarfs. The eccentric fellow came waddling up, at what was close to a run, and gesturing frantically down toward the entry of the Great Hall. The party traveling from Mirkwood had apparently arrived, and Bifur seemed to think there was someone there that everyone should see.

With varying degrees of curiosity and impatience, the entire group trouped down to see a gathering of Blue Mountain dwarfs all undoing their wraps and coats, chattering with those greeting them, putting down bundles and removing their hoods.

One of them removed his hood to reveal a headful of rather mussed blond hair, and Kili let out a shout and barreled into him like a charging bull. They hit the ground with a thump and rolled together like fighting cats for a moment, before popping up grinning and flushed, and grabbing each other again. Finally, they turned to face Thorin.

“I just … got bored, finally,” Fili said with a grin, and went to hug his uncle.


	2. Bilbo is Uncertain

It was mid-afternoon, and Bilbo was at his desk making a list of everything he could remember about Orcs from his time in slavery. King Elrond, Legolas, and Bofur all seemed eager to bring him to Mirkwood for Thranduil’s Council, and the Hobbit was… just not sure he was ready to chance it. Rivendell was a safe haven. And Thorin would most likely be there. Bilbo shrank from seeing him, uncertain that the tenuous peace he’d grown in his heart could withstand even looking at that face across the room. That face… intense, forbidding, almost cruel… until he smiles, and then those eyes could be so warm. And the hair, oh—Bilbo shuddered. He didn’t want to think about the hair.

Bilbo was not the only one thinking about the dynamics of the situation. Elrond and Legolas were both of the mind that if Thorin were there, all the better! Let him see his former toy as a respected member, a consultant, an expert, even. Bilbo’s input would be solicited quite probably at every turn: he knew Orcs. Indeed, he knew some of them by name. His observations would be important. HE would be important. Both Elves felt that Thorin needed to see that.

They also felt that, if Bilbo were not to return to the Shire—and it seemed increasingly possible that he would not any time soon—he needed to put some of his fears into perspective. Facing Thorin, be it for a reconciliation or a final renunciation, might be the next step in his healing. For the Elves were aware, in a way Bilbo was not, that it wasn’t merely a healing from the recent abuse Thorin had inflicted. It was from his years with the Orcs, and with the dragon, as well. His self-esteem had taken such a pounding; Thorin’s damage was only the icing on the cake.

Bofur knocked on the door, and then entered as Bilbo straightened his back and looked up at him.

“I’m trying to remember all the Orcish words I knew,” Bilbo said, gesturing to the one book in the library he’d been able to find in hopes that it would jog his memory. “Snaga means slave. Certainly remember that one,” he said conversationally.

“Are ye writing them down so you won’t have to come?” Bofur asked bluntly.

Bilbo gave him a rather harassed glance. “I don’t know.”

Boful held out a note, “Thorin sent this. I can’t tell if he’s joking or flirting with you.”

Bilbo took the note carefully and read it with a small huff of almost-laughter. “He’s capable of it,” he opined.

“You want to write him a response?” Bofur asked.

At first it seemed as if the Hobbit would refuse, but he wavered and then put the bit of paper on top of his list. He hovered over it for a moment, uncertain. Finally, he wrote:

_This is not a joke to me. This is about what is left of my life. I don’t want to be afraid or sad anymore. –Bilbo_

He bit his lip for a moment, hoping that he wasn’t opening up a dialogue that would rage out of his control and make him wish he’d kept his mouth shut (again.) Then finally he sighed, realizing that even now, he was afraid, and if he was going to stop being afraid, he had to… well… stop being afraid. He handed the note to Bofur, who took it away quickly, before Bilbo could change his mind.

Bofur’s correspondence with Thorin had gradually led the Dwarf to believe that the King did indeed want to be better, and that he missed his Hobbit terribly. Feeling as he did about Legolas, Bofur was developing a certain sympathy for anyone who yearned. And the fact that Bilbo hesitated to return to the Shire (a fact not lost on anyone) indicated that at some level, he was perhaps yearning too. 

But still, no one anywhere wanted to simply deliver the Halfling back to an abuser. Well, Thranduil would do it for the proper price, but the rest of them felt that while the Hobbit was probably still very psychologically linked to his Master-turned-Lover, and might well return of his own accord, it would be best if Thorin felt the weight of the disapproval of the community.

Not that this weight had bothered him a trice back when he’d first become king and been in the grips of gold fever. But he was better now… wasn’t he? More reasonable? The Elves hoped to find him so, for everyone’s sake, for while Elrond and Legolas hoped for the best for Bilbo, this Council was not a matchmaking session. The Orcs were a true danger, having grown from a mere nuisance to an actual threat to travelers. They had attacked a Prince of Mirkwood! True, they probably had no idea who Legolas was, but the fact remained… it must be dealt with, and Thranduil was right to convene the leaders of the area.

And Bilbo had a part to play in this, Elrond felt. So it was that when his usual invitation to dinner that night arrived in Bilbo’s quarters, there was a personal note attached that said, “Please join us, Bilbo. We must discuss this Council.”

The Hobbit was too polite to reject such a direct request while he was a guest. Biting his lips nervously, he put aside his Orc list and made himself ready for a formal dinner.


	3. Fili's Return

Thorin was feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks. Fili’s return not only eased the pressure on him, giving him once again a viable heir, but it seemed like a good omen somehow. Perhaps it was Fili’s winsome blondness that seemed to bring a touch of spring to any room he entered, maybe it was Kili’s visible joy to be reunited with his brother. Whatever it was, everyone was cheered.

“Did you meet with any Orcs between Mirkwood and Rivendell?” Balin asked, as several members of the Company gathered around him at the table and plied him with luncheon.

“Orcs? No, why?” Fili asked, dipping his bread in oil.

Balin leaned back and gave Thorin a SEE? look. 

Oin said, “I just don’t think it’s as big of an issue as Thranduil is making it. He’s upset they went after his son, that’s all.”

“They have been foraging for meat on the plains between Mirkwood and Rivendell,” Thorin explained calmly.

“Well, we hunt too, what’s the problem?” Fili asked.

“They hunt US.” Nori said bluntly, and Fili’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” He said.

Dwalin, who was usually silent, spoke up unexpectedly. “They hunt in large packs, and they attack travelers. Thranduil of Mirkwood is convening a council of humans, Dwarfs, and Elves, to consider how to deal with it.” Dwalin was always impatient when others failed to get to the point.

Fili nodded again, eating his bread. “Sounds good.” He looked around curiously. “Where’s Bilbo?”

Silence fell like a boulder dropped from the sky, hitting a dirt road and sending up dust.

In fact, not only did no one speak, no one moved. Those who knew the story started staring down and to the right of their plates, as if half the party had developed a sudden fascination with spoons. Those who had expected Bilbo to return with Thorin--but never saw him and were not let in on the secret--held still as well, but their eyes flicked from face to face curiously. Anyone surveying the table would have not been hard put to figure out who knew what. It was all in the eyes.

Fili was the only one left with the capacity to turn his head left and right, which he did. “Hello?” He asked.

Silence continued. Fili’s eyes got huge.

“Oh, Mahal, has something happened to him? Did the Orcs …. Do something to him?”

Thorin managed to rouse himself. “No, no, not at all. In fact, he’s in Rivendell at the moment and will probably attend the council.”

“Why’s he in Rivendell?” Asked Fili bluntly, being utterly unaware of… well, anything, really. The last he knew, Thorin and Bilbo were two happy lovers who had set off from the Blue Mountain hand in hand for Erebor, and no one had written to him about the developments of the last few months.

The silence grew painful. Finally, glancing around, Thorin said, “I will say this only in present company. You are the Dwarfs who believed in me from the beginning, who came with me to Erebor, who faced the dragon, who saw me in my worst moments: Bilbo returned with me in secret, but… we… had a disagreement, and I was… rather cruel to him. He fled to Rivendell. I hope to convince him to return.”

Dwalin, with a grimace, thought that at least it was a succinct summary. He did like succinct summaries.

Balin was mulling over how well Thorin understated his violence.

Ori was a-quiver with something very close to outrage, but he was still too young and too intimidated by Thorin to say anything.

Nori and Dori were merely curious.

Kili was tasting a distinct “I knew it” on his tongue.

Oin and Gloin looked at each other in complete surprise; they’d had no idea.

“Oh.” Said Fili. He paused for a moment, and then dipped some more bread in the oil. It sounded like a mere lover’s spat to him, and he thought no more about it. “Where’s Tauriel?”

“Oh, she’s in the dispensary… I didn’t even tell her you were here!” Kili said, getting up quickly. He wanted to get away from the tense silence and consult with his wife on what he had just heard. “I’ll tell her. Come by when you’re done eating!” He said brightly, and then exited the scene as quickly as he could.

Fili watched him go with mild curiosity and then took a drink of ale. “Where’s Bofur?”

“In Rivendell, with Bilbo,” Thorin said emotionlessly.

“Oh,” said Fili, and then his eyes widened and his head snapped up. “OH!”

Suddenly, several other pairs of eyes at the table widened too. The plot thickens!

Thorin heaved a sigh, “No, no…. I sent him to accompany Bilbo, along with a few guards.”

Fili was by now thoroughly confused, and almost afraid to ask any more questions. “Oh,” he said, for what seemed like the fifth time. “Well,” he added, and then reached for the boiled eggs. “So, who is going to this Council?” That seemed like a safe question.

Thorin gave Balin a pointed look and then directed his eyes to his nephew. “Since you ask, I am. I leave you in charge. You’ll be king if I die, so comb your hair.” 

“Right,” said Fili with a wry smile. He and his uncle exchanged an understanding glance. Dark humor was a Durin feature. 

Balin heaved a sigh of defeat. “Take Bifur, at least,” he said, and Thorin nodded assent.


	4. Elrond's Request

Bilbo was placed between Legolas and Bofur at dinner. In this, he saw Elrond’s careful hand; always he looked to his guests’ comfort, and he knew that Bilbo was timid of facing strangers just now. Serious topics would be taken up after dinner, he suspected. For now, the Hobbit sat between two of his most trusted companions and listened to them bicker about jewelry, of all things.

“I would not wear a ring,” Legolas said simply. “I would not. It could affect my fighting. Every bit of my hand must be free to feel the hilt of the sword, the shaft of the arrow… anything that changes my grip would be a hindrance.”

“I would. If it were a promise ring, I’d wear it. I don’t think a bit of jewelry would hinder my fighting skills. But then, I’m not as delicate as some folk,” Bofur returned, chasing peas across his plate with a fork.

“Well, hefting an axe is not the same. You don’t really aim, do you? You just heave it in the general direction—“

“Oh, I think there is more to it than heaving in the general direction—“

“—and then of course, there’s the head-butting technique Dwarfs have perfected.” Legolas added, twirling his wine thoughtfully in his glass. “Certainly a ring wouldn’t interfere there.”

“I don’t advise you ever to try it,” Bofur returned, finally just smashing the peas into mush and scooping them up. “You’d muss your hair.”

They gave each other a long, challenging look over Bilbo’s head. The Hobbit sat between them, eyes going back and forth as they bickered.

“Nor could I wear a bracelet. It would slide around while I’m fighting and distract me.” The Elf continued.

“If you’re easily distracted, it’s best to just admit it,” Bofur agreed. “I’m not the flighty sort, myself. I can focus on one thing—“ he stopped, cursing himself.

Legolas’s eyes lit up in triumph. “Oh yes. ONE thing at a time. I have noticed that about you.”

“Um,” said Bilbo. “Have you tried the yams?”

After dinner, Elrond invited the three of them to a walk in the conservatory. This, Bilbo knew from experience, was an invitation to more serious talk. The King gestured for Bilbo to fall in at his side, and they moved among the protected greenery at a leisurely pace. The Elf slowed to an amble so that his Hobbit companion, who was much shorter, didn’t have to scurry to keep up with him. Behind them, Bofur and Legolas strolled side-by-side, and Bilbo could tell their verbal jousting was continuing in muted undertones, inspired by the vegetation that surrounded them.

“These bamboo stalks are so tall, but so slim and fragile. One chop of an axe and down they’d come.”

“Yes, this short little cactus is tougher. Sadly, it has only ONE flower...”

“Bilbo,” King Elrond began, “Are you uneasy at the thought of traveling to Mirkwood? You would be part of a large party. A veritable entourage, well protected by my bodyguards. If you are mounted with an Elf, we can cover the distance in a bit over two days.” 

Bilbo drew in his breath. “You have been generous and gracious… helped me more than anyone in years, really. I couldn’t repay such kindness with a refusal. But… it’s not the traveling that frightens me.”

King Elrond knew exactly what frightened Bilbo, but seemed willing to approach the subject slowly, without assumptions. “Would you be intimidated by addressing such a diverse council with so many rulers? For they will very much want you to speak.”

Bilbo bowed his head and watched his own furry feet walk over the smooth flagstones. “I am afraid of meeting Thorin,” he murmured, seeing no point in pretending.

The King nodded understandingly, and they came to the end of the first path and turned left onto the second one. The other two followed, and Bilbo heard Bofur murmur, “That one has a flower the color of topaz,” rebutted instantly by Legolas’s observations that there were many colors of topaz, from gold to aquamarine. Then they fell to arguing whether the amethyst or the topaz was more conducive of effecting calm and clarity… and which one of them needed such a thing the most.

“Are you most afraid of what he will say or do… or how you will feel?” Elrond inquired delicately.

Bilbo gave a rather indelicate snort, “Oh, it’s very evenly divided, for one will feed off the other nice as you please.”

Elrond smiled, and then offered, “Do you wish for me to provide an escort to keep him away from you at all times?”

“No,” said Bilbo instantly, and then fell silent, asking himself why he rejected such an offer so quickly.

They walked silently for several minutes. Behind them, the other two continued in their own cocoon of banter.

“I’d give you jade, for luck.”

“I do not need luck…. But I would give you emerald, for focus. Then perhaps you’d continue your archery lessons.”

“How did you know—Well! I need a better teacher. Kili is too moody.”

“Emerald and Peridot, to open your mind and give you the drive to continue.”

“Green and greener, eh? Figures. I’d give you a collar of opal, rose quartz, and jade.”

“I would not wear a collar!”

“It would protect your throat from sniper’s arrows.”

“… that is true… oh look. That plant has ONE tomato.”

“So you will come to the Council, Bilbo? Remember that we have time along the journey for you to come to terms with your concerns, and that you can come to me at any time if you realize you need protection or help. But if you will pardon me for saying… it seems to me that what you fear and what you want are very much the same.”

“I don’t know what I want… “ Bilbo stammered. “I mean… I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to hate myself for being a fool anymore, for being wrong, for being too afraid to love and too stupid to run away.”

Elrond contemplated this. “Do you wish the decision was not yours to make? Because then, no matter what happened, it would not be your fault?”

The Hobbit stopped walking, and suddenly it was difficult for him to breathe. He inhaled deeply but felt he couldn’t get enough air. He stood for a moment, agitated. The others gathered around him, concerned. Bofur put a careful hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

Finally, panting, the Halfling stared up at King Elrond. “I don’t want to be that sort. I know about that… just putting yourself at the mercy of fate, or love, or someone else, and saying to yourself that destiny will take its course, and… I don’t want to be that sort. But I am! I am that sort! I am that sort and I don’t want to be!”

There was silence for a moment. Legolas stepped forward, gentle concern replacing all the teasing malice of his rapport with Bofur. “Come, I will take you back to your rooms,” he said simply, and offered his arm. Bilbo stared at the offered arm for a moment, and then took it, feeling shamefully weak and confused. They turned back along the path, and Bofur and Elrond stood respectfully quiet and let them go.

After several minutes, Elrond turned to Bofur. “Rose quartz, opal, and jade. I wonder if he understood that.”

Bofur blushed a violent red and wished he had his hat to hide under. Elrond smiled, and they began their journey out of the conservatory.


	5. The Journey Begins

It was late at night. The provisions were packed for tomorrow, just light ones, for it was only a short day’s journey to Mirkwood, and presumably their host would provide for them once they arrived—although Thorin packed an extra bit of dried jerky, just in case. Now he was up on the terraces, though it was quite cold, staring toward Mirkwood. 

The Dwarf king was sitting on the viewing rock, lost in thought until startled by the flapping of crow’s wings. He jumped to his feet, hands automatically going into his pocket for dried fruit. Chatter, one of the more vocal crows, landed near him and started up what sounded like a stream of abuse. Thorin quickly offered the fruit and gingerly tugged the scroll from the bird’s leg. When silence finally fell, Thorin held a lantern near the scroll, unwilling to even wait until he was in his rooms.

_This is not a joke to me. This is about what is left of my life. I don’t want to be afraid or sad anymore. –Bilbo_

His heart sped up just a bit. Finally, words from Bilbo! A direct message! Without another thought in his head, Thorin grabbed his charcoal pencil and wrote on the scroll:

_I leave in the morning to come to Mirkwood. I beg you to be there. I beg you on my knees to be there! Bilbo you must at least let me see you one more time. Meet me in Mirkwood._

Not even waiting to sign his name, Thorin rolled up the scroll and held it up, eyes hopeful. Chatter, who was young and had plenty of energy, hopped closer, indicating acceptance, and Thorin affixed the message to the bird’s leg and gave him a bit more fruit in thanks. Then he watched, holding the lantern, as it flew out of sight.

Bilbo, you must come, he thought. I must have one more chance to capture your heart… or you.

 

Thorin did not sleep well that night. Nevertheless, in the morning, he was up and ready to go at first light. He stepped over to the maple desk and looked through Bilbo’s drawings one last time. Above the desk, on the wall, the Koi pond was now framed and mounted. He stared at it each morning before he left his rooms. He gave it one last look now, almost as if for luck. Then he exited, sweeping down the corridor in full kingly regalia, ready to descend upon Mirkwood with Bifur, Nori and Dori, and a small military escort. They were traveling with a party from Dale, including Bard, who had arrived the night before to be ready to head out in the morning.

Thorin had breakfast in the dining hall with his most trusted Company. Only Ori was discontent. Thorin had forbidden him to come, making an excuse about not being too many, but his real concern was Ori throwing himself between Thorin and Bilbo to protect the Hobbit in a moment of over-emotion. If it came down to some desperate act, which Thorin considered at least remotely possible, he didn’t want to have to fight off one of his own.

Soon enough, they were all gathered in the Great Hall. Thorin was startled to see that Bard had his young son with him, and more startled yet at how tall the boy had gotten. He was approaching that gangly age.

“You and your heir are traveling together?” Thorin asked doubtingly.

Bard shrugged. “We do not like to be separated, and this is not a dangerous mission. More of a committee meeting, really.”

Thorin gave a curt nod and moved past them. It was no business of his. He stood before the gates and raised his hand, and Dwalin heaved them open. The early morning mists on the plains met their eyes, and the grey light of dawn showed pink streaks appearing over the distant dark smudge that was Mirkwood. As soon as the ponies were loaded and mounted, the party set off, with an assembly of Dwarfs and Humans waving goodbye. How long they would be gone was unclear. The Council might meet for two or three days, or might argue and wrangle for a week. With Elves, Thorin thought dryly, anything was possible.

But the day was fine, the journey before them not long or arduous, and the King was very hopeful that soon, he would see Bilbo again. And whether he had to promise, beg, bargain, threaten, or snatch, he was determined to return with Bilbo at his side. 

 

Meanwhile, Bilbo was similarly up and dressed, and far more nervous than Thorin. Folded in his pocket was the plea of the King Under the Mountain, having arrived just that morning as they were preparing to leave. _He begs on his knees, does he,_ Bilbo thought, staring down at it. Yes, he was undeniably jittery. _I’m going to regret this, I know I will._ And yet, if he had asked for an escort back to the Shire weeks ago, might he be sitting at home this morning, having his coffee, happily at peace? Or brooding, lonely, wondering if he shouldn’t have given it just one more chance?

_Fear regret above all things,_ Bilbo mused. _But no matter what you do, you’ll wonder what you lost._

Soon, the traveling party was moving out. Bofur, to his wild joy, was mounted on the white horse behind Legolas. In a moment of discreet caution, he took off his magnificent monstrosity of a hat and tucked it between his groin and the Elf’s buttocks. Then, not sure where to settle his hands, he finally placed them on the Elf’s waist and then let out a “PFFffff!” of astonishment.

“You’ve got no fat at all! What would you do if you got sick and couldn’t eat for a few days? You’d starve!” He cried.

Legolas smirked over his shoulder. “I am never ill.”

“What do I hold on to? Just hook my fingers under your ribs? Are ye ticklish?”

The Elf stiffened and his smile vanished. “Do not make me stop this horse.”

“You are, aren’t ye? Here? How about here?”

Legolas twitched, dropped the reins, reached down, grabbed Bofur’s wrists and yanked them forward, bringing the Dwarf right up against his back. 

“Do not force me to make an example of you,” he warned.

Bofur was nearly fainting with delight. “Yes, Master Greenleaf,” he said with exaggerated meekness, his face mashed between the Elf’s shoulderblades.

Bilbo watched them with mingled amusement and concern. _Oh yes,_ he thought. _It’s all fun and games at first._

He himself was mounted behind one of Elrond’s aides, a very polite fellow with long dark hair who rarely spoke. Once he’d assured himself that the Hobbit was comfortable, he turned his attention to his horse and they fell into position behind Elrond’s bodyguards. Another Elven aide lifted a golden, curved horn to his lips and blew a long, melodious call, and then the entourage began their journey toward Mirkwood. Unlike the Dwarf and Human contingent, they did consider the journey dangerous, and scouts surrounded them on all sides.

But finally, they were underway. Bilbo and Thorin were each traveling toward the other, and keenly aware of it, both with highly charged emotions, both doing all they could to conceal their anxiety from those around them.


	6. In Mirkwood

After the sunlight-filled, civilized grandeur of Rivendell, Thranduil’s kingdom was a shadowy labyrinth of looming trees, dark tunnels, and stairs that seemed more for ornamentation than to actually lead anywhere. The hall of the Elven King was nearly as dark as Erebor, but without gold to brighten it, or carved patterns to decorate it, or burning torches to warm it. The Woodland Elves were fond of twisting and braiding tree branches into arches and pillars, but beyond that, the main decoration was hanging moss that dangled down like something dead.

The Rivendell party, despite traveling further, arrived first. They were on fleet horses rather than plodding ponies, and Elves had a tendency not to stop for lunch. They were greeted formally by Thranduil--who came across as cold and haughty even when trying to play host--and given small, plain rooms to rest in. The Rivendell Elves divested themselves of their gear, freshened up quickly, and went dispersing soundlessly into the wood, searching for old friends and relatives.

Bofur and Bilbo were shown into a rather dormitory like room, and they flopped on their narrow beds and wondered when dinner was. Elves were lovely creatures, but they were exhausting.

“They don’t eat, they don’t sleep,” Bofur complained, rubbing his hands over his face until his mustaches bristled.

“It’s why they’re so skinny,” Bilbo opined, staring glumly at the ceiling. He’d eaten all his dried fruit and was in desperate need of tea.

Eventually, both Hobbit and Dwarf curled up and took a nap, hoping that they would awaken at dusk to find that there was food available … somewhere. Mirkwood hospitality was not like Rivendell hospitality. Arriving at Rivendell was like being lovingly ushered into the palace of the gods. Arriving at Mirkwood was like showing up at a loading dock where everyone was too busy to help you.

When they awakened, some hours later, a minor transformation had taken place. Now Mirkwood was lit with torches, and Bofur and Bilbo crept from their room to find the kingdom milling with activity. Elves, humans, and dwarfs were all about, and buffets of sweets and breads were placed generously in random locations about the Throne Room. Everywhere they looked, the guests and inhabitants were helping themselves to refreshments, standing about speaking in low tones, and the overall atmosphere was much more cheery. There was even a harp being gently strummed by a very young looking Elf, practically a white-haired faerie child. She plucked slowly at the strings, sending out just enough sweet, low tones to fill any empty spaces without overpowering conversation.

Bilbo gave a whimper of relief to see a steaming cauldron of something hot, sweet, and drinkable over an elegantly simple fire pit, and joined a group of humans gathered around it to accept a cup of whatever it was. He drank it: yes, hot, sweet, and soothing. He didn’t care what it was. It was relaxing and he felt nearly normal again.

“Are you Bilbo?” Asked a teenage human boy with hair in his large, curious eyes.

The Hobbit finished swallowing and offered his hand. “Yes, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. And you are?”

“Bain, son of Bard,” the boy answered, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “My father has told me about you.”

“Bard—is Bard here??” Bilbo asked hopefully, looking around at the assembled guests. He still had good memories of that human’s calm and compassionate manner during those bizarre days that he was first enslaved by Thorin. The entire debacle with the stolen Arkenstone was not a favored memory, but he definitely recalled Bard’s presence, and his attempts at intervening while Bilbo was caught in the hungry tug-of-war between the Elves and the Dwarfs.

“Oh yes. We came with King of Erebor. They’re over there—“ the boy gestured, and Bilbo turned to lock eyes across the room with Thorin, who had been staring at him with such concentration, it was a wonder he hadn’t felt it.

Dizziness swept over the Hobbit with dark, beating wings. His chest constricted, his vision grew dark, and for a moment, he felt as if he were falling. An Elf standing near him steadied him.

“Take care,” said the Elf amusedly. “Mead is heady for small things like you, particularly if you have not eaten. Here, take a bit of cake.”

Bilbo blinked confusedly up at the Elf, who looked rather like a male Tauriel.

“Thank you, “ he breathed, and moved a step so that the Elf blocked his view of Thorin. He nibbled at the cake and then turned back to the cauldron, holding out his cup for another helping of mead. He felt he might need it.

The evening seemed given over to merely socializing, as the Council would not convene till after lunch on the morrow. Thranduil was waiting to see if any further emissaries or representatives would decide to attend. So for the evening, it was buffets and fire pits and soft music, diverse groups of the inhabitants of Middle Earth mingling fairly well, given that the natural tendency was for like to remain with like. But Thranduil had taken the precaution of setting out food in such a manner that one had to travel from table to table in order to get what one wanted, and foods popular with humans, Elves, and Dwarfs were deliberately grouped to lure the different races together. 

Bilbo had to admit, it was all much more cleverly arranged than he’d originally realized. Had they been given sufficient refreshments when they’d arrived, many would have elected to remain in their rooms, speak only to those in their own party, and avoid strangers until the morrow. But by starving them until dinner and then mixing and spreading the food, Thranduil forced his guests to interact. And it was done generously enough that it didn’t feel like force. The music was soothing but did not distract from conversation. Open spaces and cozy alcoves both were perfect for pockets of interaction. Even the fire pits, five in all, each had a different drink heating over them, encouraging movement from group to group. Yes, actually… quite consciously done. Bilbo’s estimation of Thranduil’s intelligence rose, although his level of fondness for the icy Elf remained stable. He wasn’t very lovable. But he was definitely not stupid.


	7. Chess

Thorin watched Bilbo from across the room. Even when he wasn’t watching him, he was watching him. Once his Hobbit had seen him, had shared that electrifying moment of locked eyes—and Thorin could tell enough from across the hall that the Halfling nearly fainted—the two of them kept one another in their peripheral vision. They were chess pieces on the opposite sides of the board, kings—for Bilbo was a king in this game, though he did not realize it—and could only move a step at a time.

But each had a court. Thorin turned to Bard and said, “I see your son is speaking with Bilbo. I wonder if you remember Bilbo?”

“Of course,” Bard turned and, seeing the Hobbit, started across the hall to greet him. Legolas, seeing the interaction and thinking Dale’s king came as an emissary of Thorin’s, cut diagonally across the flagstones to intercept Bard and greet him brightly. Blocked. Bifur, who spotted his brother soon after, cut an L-shaped path through the crowds and was met by Bofur, who moved straight and rook-like to greet his brother in Dwarfish fashion. 

Thorin slowly skirted the crowd, moving carefully to a fire-pit closer to Bilbo. Nervously, the Hobbit eased himself around his own fire-pit and headed to one opposite. Elrond stepped into the space left empty (check) and greeted Thorin with intent, inscrutable courtesy. 

“King Thorin. I am pleased you could attend.” He said blandly.

Thorin stared up at him from under his brows, being far too proud to tilt his head up and thus acknowledge that anyone was taller than he was.

“Are you indeed? I wondered if you might feel I have no pressing need to be here.”

“Not at all,” Elrond said smoothly. “The Orc attacks will concern the entirety of Middle Earth eventually, and every voice that can help must be heard.”

Thorin glanced past him to Bilbo, who was sampling the creamy hot drink at the far fire pit with a contingent of Dain’s guards. Some were the ones they had traveled with from the Blue Mountains. The king was rather nonplussed to see his Hobbit chatting with them in quite an easy manner. Apparently he’d gotten to know them during those days of pitching tents and making campfires.

But Elrond still loomed before him. “I do hope everything will be resolved that can be, during the next few days. There are several unfinished matters that are giving uneasiness to many,” the Elven King said obliquely. 

Thorin gave a dark smile and retreated a few paces, letting Dori totter across the flagstones to greet Bilbo. He watched as Bilbo shook Dori’s hand, spoke, tilted his head, listened… and then gave an uneasy glance in Thorin’s direction. Soon after, he retreated, and Dain’s men became the pawns that blocked any further advances. One took Dori by the arm and guided him to another fire-pit—probably an honest enthusiasm for spiced drinks rather than any attempt to protect Bilbo from Thorin’s influence. Still, it was entertaining to watch the pieces move about the board.

Because of his high-strung tendencies, even Thorin’s closest kin would have been surprised if they could have read his mind that night: He had no intention of winning Bilbo back… that night. No plans for a confrontation, catharsis, reconciliation… not that night. No. That would be counter-productive. Intuitively, Thorin knew that if he and Bilbo came back together that night, it would be a terribly vulnerable victory. For they would then spend the next few days on enemy turf: very few of those who had any interest in the matter were anxious to see Thorin reclaim his prize. He knew this from Bofur’s outraged note, from Ori’s anxiety, from Balin’s sidelong looks, from Dwalin’s sneer, from Tauriel’s hesitating responses, from Elrond’s long stares, from Thranduil’s amused, contemptuous glances, from Legolas’s look of concerned abstraction, from Bard’s compassionate regard of the Hobbit… there was no one on his side.

Thorin didn’t revel in it, but it didn’t deter him from his goal. He was sure he could make Bilbo happy … now that he understood the _importance_ of making Bilbo happy. It wasn’t that he had never cared before, but rather that Bilbo had seemed happy enough already (until… well…), and it was the tasks one hasn’t accomplished that tend to weigh upon one: _reclaim kingdom, rule kingdom, guard reputation..! Make lover happy_ did pale before these responsibilities. Still… now that Thorin was convinced he could do all of these things together— _rule kingdom, make lover happy_ —he was anxious to try.

It even occurred to him, in a rare moment of humor (for Thorin wasn’t known for light wit) that he’d had it backwards before: _Rule lover, make kingdom happy,_ he had thought. Well, now he understood his error, and was willing to make the required adjustments. But before he could make lover happy, he had to get lover back.

This could not be accomplished tonight. Because if it were, the obvious reaction for all concerned would be to intervene. If he and Bilbo appeared side-by-side and glowing with reconciliation tomorrow, every concerned friend would feel compelled to sidle up to the Hobbit each time there was a coffee break and inquire whether he really knew what he was doing, and plant the seeds of doubt and fear into soil that was already too fertile.

There would be too much time for interference, intervention, quarrels and quibbles, suppressed memories rising again, petty irritations to be remembered and referred to. Second thoughts. Sudden onsets of courage on Bilbo’s part that could only work against the Dwarf. Negotiations and petty retribution brought on by the knowledge that they were still on neutral ground. Too much could go wrong, and a patched-up relationship on the first night could be torn at its new seams by Day Three.

So Thorin stalked Bilbo subtly around the Throne room, slowly, from fire pit to fire pit, from table to table, but never closed in, although he could have. All the bishops and knights and pawns together could not have stopped Thorin if he’d suddenly made a dead set at the Hobbit. Socially, he was still a king and this was still a council about a collective threat. Concern for the Hobbit would fall before the well-being of the community. 

But it was too soon. Better to mount this slow chase that he had no intention of winning so early, and just loom enough to make it clear to Bilbo: I want you. I’ve come for you… but no taking. Not yet.

The time to move in for the kill (so to speak) was when it was time to leave. Woo, stalk, do whatever you must, he told himself. But do not conclude until a heated surrender on Bilbo’s part has no chance to cool and grow cautious. Confrontation, catharsis, capitulation, and then Get Him Back to Erebor Before He Has Second Thoughts. That was the plan…. If he could stick to it.

And Thorin did not consider himself evil in the slightest for plotting in this manner: he intended to make Bilbo happy. He intended never to hurt the Hobbit again (well, not in a serious way.) He intended to heal him, to be forgiven, to make amends, to create a new life for them both as King and Consort. Really, that had always been the plan! Bilbo had thwarted that plan, and Thorin had perhaps over-reacted, this was how he saw it now. They both had made mistakes. Perhaps Thorin, just as before, suffered from an inability to adapt to new situations, a terror of unresolved, unstable arrangements, and a tendency to want to control everything. These things were occurring to him; he wasn’t entirely without self-awareness.

But the fact remained that even in his new vision, there was a blind spot: a certainty that he could not put it all right till he got Bilbo back to Erebor. 

Therefore, the goal was to get Bilbo back to Erebor. He watched with burning eyes as the Hobbit bid goodnight to his nearest, and made his exit. And he let him go.

“Until tomorrow, my little love,” he thought, and then quaffed his drink and turned, also, to make his exit. He would go to his room, he would lay down, he would sleep. He would NOT lie awake brooding about the fact that his Hobbit was just down the corridor from him. Within walking distance. So … very … close.


	8. The Best Laid Plans

Bilbo glanced behind him often in the shadowy corridor that led back to his guest room, and when he finally reached it and slipped inside, he gave a gasp of relief that nothing untoward had happened. A glance at the other bed told him that Bofur was still out and about, enjoying the improved hospitality of evening Mirkwood. 

Bilbo lit the torch on the wall, and the candle on the table, and then sank to his bed and put his face in his hands for a moment. It had been a bit overwhelming, seeing Thorin. The Dwarf King was still beautiful in Bilbo’s eyes. The dark, flowing, white-streaked hair, the brutal but symmetrical face, the deep, intense blue of his eyes… even his gait, the long, slightly rolling steps, and the way he turned his head, slowly, deliberately… the Hobbit felt his heart speeding up.

And there was no indication that Thorin had lost interest in his lover. The expressionless stare that most would not understand, Bilbo understood. There was a tinge of pleasure in knowing that the King of Erebor had left his hard-won kingdom and traveled to the hated realm of Elves just for him. Bilbo had no illusions that the Dwarfs cared about Orcs hunting Elves.

The door handle turned and Bilbo leapt to his feet, but it was only Bofur coming in for the night. He was tipsy.

“Mmm, one day, I swear I’ll get ‘im,” Bofur said cheerfully, and made his unsteady way to his bed. “Or he’ll get me, and I’m not feeling too picky about how it falls out, ye know?”

Bilbo tried not to laugh, but it was nervous laughter. “Be careful. You get gotten, it can be hard to get away.”

Bofur was drunk enough to say, “Ah, I would never want to get away. He could do as he liked with me!” He fell backward on the bed, sprawled and happy. Then he started snoring.

Bilbo sat back down and contemplated. His relationship with Thorin had been exciting and fulfilling… as long as he’d let Thorin “do as he liked.” Their one and only explosion had come when Bilbo had taken matters into his own hands.

He sat and stared down at those hands. Was I wrong? He finally asked himself. Not “was I wrong to listen to Dain,” or “was Dain wrong,” or “was Thorin right,” but “was I wrong to suddenly change the rules like that?” Throughout their relationship, Thorin had been Master. First by force, later by consent, finally by request, practically. That is… Bilbo shifted uncomfortably.

He wasn’t asking himself if he’d had the right to make a decision, or a choice, but that… if he saw it from Thorin’s point of view… he HAD made a choice to come with Thorin and be his… his whatever. And then had suddenly broken away. And insisted he was right. It wasn’t that he might not have been right. It was that, perhaps, Thorin had been given no warning that his Hobbit might change the rules so drastically, and at such a dangerous, intensely important moment in Thorin’s life.

Did he think Thorin was right to whip him for it? NO. Flatly, no. No, no, no.

But. Leaving that aside… an apology for his own mistakes did not constitute an acceptance of Thorin’s. It was merely an acknowledgement that Bilbo, too, had made mistakes, or at least… had done something terribly upsetting and never even admitted that it might have been upsetting.

Suddenly, Bilbo had to speak to Thorin.

He got to his feet, headed for the door, turned the knob, opened it up… and there was Thorin, lurking outside the door, eyes wide, looking very much like he’d been summoning his courage to knock and hadn’t yet found it. They stared at each other. Then Bilbo smiled, tentatively… he couldn’t help it.

Eyes locked with Thorin’s, Bilbo did a slow, backwards retreat into his room, and Thorin followed, close but not touching. When they were inside, Thorin closed the door and finally his eyes broke from Bilbo’s to take in the lightly snoring Bofur in the nearby bed. “Hm,” he rumbled, and a smile grew on his lips. “I see you have a chaperone,” he whispered.

Bilbo gave a nervous chuckle and shrugged. “A bit of one.”

The Dwarf King’s eyes returned to his lover. “Help me out of some of these trappings?” He asked quietly, and slid his furs off his shoulders. Bilbo automatically accepted them, and put them over a chair, and then took the velvet jacket, and the vest beneath, and draped them over the furs. Then Thorin sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, and gave them to the Hobbit, who put them quietly along the wall. Finally, Thorin gazed at Bilbo said whispered, “Take out my braids.”

Bilbo stiffened, head drawing back, inhaling deeply. Thorin’s eyes never left his. He reached out, pulled Bilbo to him, and then slid from the edge of the bed down onto his knees before the Hobbit. Even then, his head reached Bilbo’s chest. He gazed up, eyes wide open and so very blue. “Please, Bilbo.” His hands were warm on the Halfling’s waist, and roamed up to caress his back restlessly.

Taking another steadying breath, Bilbo blinked several times, for his eyes had grown strangely moist. His heart was aching, and his hands trembled, but he carefully removed the silver and blue beads from the bottoms of the silky braids, set them on the table by the bed, and combed his fingers through the long locks carefully. Thorin tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and Bilbo gazed with uncontrollable adoration on that sharply carved face, that flowing hair, the long column of his throat… he was beautiful. He stroked the waterfall of hair more boldly, unable to stop himself.

Finally, Thorin brought his head back up and opened his eyes again. “Tell me…” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me you still love my hair.”

Without warning, Bilbo felt himself simply break down. There was no other word for it. His mind went dark, his face crumpled in anguish, his knees buckled, and he dissolved into sobs. He couldn’t even be quiet about it—thankfully Bofur slept on.

Alarmed, horrified, Thorin stood and scooped up his Hobbit, laid him gently on the bed, and then lay on top of him, part cuddling, part smothering. “Oh Mahal,” he whispered, his hands growing frantic as he tried to pet Bilbo everywhere at once. He buried his bearded face in the Hobbit’s neck and kissed him ardently all along his throat and up to his large, pointed ear. 

Bilbo continued to weep, the sobs coming in great, convulsive heaves. He wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t have spoken to save his life, he just wept, reliving those dark moments in Erebor that Thorin had pulled away and turned and stared at him so coldly. And the world had slowed to a painful stop.

Thorin, in a frenzy of guilt, wrapped his arms around the shaking form and squeezed him tight, as if he could force the pain out of him. They both grew very warm against each other, and Bilbo’s wet face pressed into Thorin’s shoulder, dampening his shirt with tears. Agitated, the Dwarf squeezed tighter, and it would have been painful but—as Bilbo realized—when you feel you are bleeding from your heart, it felt good to have someone tourniquet your whole being and rock it back and forth.

“My love, my love,” Thorin was whispering, pressing his face roughly into Bilbo’s hair and face. “Oh my love, no, no…”

He squeezed tighter yet until finally Bilbo gasped, “I can’t breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe!” Thorin growled, grinding his face into Bilbo’s dark gold curls.

Bilbo gave a huff of laughter mixed with tears, and Thorin relented and loosened his grip enough for him to gulp in some air, and give several more gasps of strung-out laughter and sobs. They finally calmed, although Thorin’s legs were wrapped around Bilbo’s like snakes, and he had never felt so gorgeously trapped. The Dwarf’s weight nearly flattened him, but it was comforting and familiar, and very warm. Thorin leaned back just a bit, to let his Hobbit breathe some more, and gazed down at him, stroking his hair with a large, be-ringed hand.

Then, Thorin took one of Bilbo’s hands and brought it back up to his hair. “Tell me.” 

Bilbo felt the tears threaten again and said nothing. Thorin sunk his fingers into the gold curls and gave a slow warning pull. “Tell me! Tell me or so help me I’ll squish you flat!” He let his full weight come down and pulled Bilbo’s head back until the Hobbit gasped and whispered, “I love—“

Thorin attacked his neck again, savaging him in every way he could. “Say it,” he insisted.

“I love your hair.” Bilbo finally managed, and started crying again.

Thorin shook his head in anguish and softened, cuddling him more gently now, kissing his tears. He murmured in Bilbo’s ear, long incomprehensible words, stroking him and kissing yet more. Gradually, sniffling, Bilbo was able to bring himself under control and listen. He couldn’t understand what the Dwarf was murmuring—it must have been Khuzdul—but it was hypnotic, and Bilbo was emotionally exhausted. Finally, he was lying calm, utterly wrapped in his King’s arms and legs, that hair draped across his neck, the hot breath and beard tickling his sensitive Hobbit ear. And Bilbo admitted to himself: he was happy. Shattered, undone, helpless, lost, and confused. But happy.

Carefully, he slipped his hands under Thorin’s shirt and caressed his smooth back. The Dwarf gave a groan of pleasure and ground his hips into Bilbo, and in a split second their mood went from anguish to desire. Thorin got hold of the golden curls once more and turned to plunder his mouth with intrusive, demanding kisses, and they thrust their hips against one another, their own clothing abrading them deliciously as they rode each other.

Thorin moved to Bilbo’s other ear and mouthed it, bucking his hips into his Hobbit until their hardness was aligned and rubbing against one another. Finally, with a grunt of frustration, Thorin pulled back, reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny stopper of oil. 

“Always prepared,” Bilbo whispered mockingly.

Thorin worked off the top with one hand, gave Bilbo a look, and manipulated the stopper around until he’d managed to spill it all over his fingers. Then he opened the Hobbit’s trousers and reached in with those slick fingers, his other arm still wrapped tightly around his captive, and stroked Bilbo’s hard shaft until it was slick and throbbing. Then he slowed, teasingly.

Bilbo’s eyes closed and he bit his lips, trying to keep quiet.

Smiling, eyes heavy, Thorin moved his fingers more slowly yet, tight, the way Bilbo liked it, but slow. The Hobbit’s face was contorted in an agony of pleasure.

“You want it?” Thorin whispered.

“I do, I do,” Bilbo managed.

“Take your trousers off.” Thorin instructed quietly.

Bilbo shinnied out of his trousers. He was still mostly trapped under the heavy weight of his King, but he managed. Thorin watched him gloatingly, oiled hand still teasing the turgid flesh.

“Turn over,” he directed, and Bilbo turned immediately, Thorin’s hand going with him. He bent over the hand that still captured him, his buttocks offered up. The Dwarf reached over him rather awkwardly to seize the stopper of oil with his other hand, and quickly drizzled the last of it into the crease between those plump cheeks. Then, fumbling his pants open, he placed his bursting erection between them and slid it back and forth against the sensitive entrance. It was one of their favorite positions. Bilbo pushed his buttocks back against his king, grinding the hard flesh against his own softness, and in reward, Thorin sped up his strokes and twisted his hand over the head of his lover’s cock until they were both writhing as quietly as they could in unison, working their bodies against one other, pushing and sliding until Bilbo, shuddering, felt all his tension spill out into Thorin’s greedy hand. Thorin released him, took himself in hand, and directed his release between the greased buttocks that still squirmed beneath him. Their mutual relief, when they finally went limp, was profound. Thorin let all his weight sink onto his Hobbit again, and Bilbo reveled in it, spreading his legs and arms in a wordless sign of submission. Thorin sighed and kissed his shoulders lovingly.

“I didn’t intend to do that. I just came to talk.” He finally whispered.

Bilbo chuckled soundlessly into the pillow. “Oops?” He replied, just as quietly.

They both held still for a moment when Bofur’s snoring hiccupped, changed pitch, and resumed as he rolled over with his back to them. Then they grinned to themselves. Finally, Thorin was able to lift himself and look about for something to clean up with. At length, they discovered a hankie in Bilbo’s crumpled pants pocket that was better than nothing. They arranged their clothing in silence.

“Come back to my rooms with me,” Thorin suggested, abandoning instantly his well-thought out Tonight Is Too Soon plan. 

Bilbo hesitated. “Why don’t you just stay here?”

Thorin looked at the small bed with disfavor, and over at the snoring Bofur. He was about to insist, but then he looked at his Hobbit’s face, which was pink with pleasure, but also with crying, and his eyelids were a bit swollen. He nodded, slid his breeches off, and his shirt, and cuddled his lover up against him with warm, strong arms.

“Whatever you wish, Bilbo,” he said softly in the Hobbit’s pointed ear. Bilbo wriggled until he was comfortably tucked into the Dwarf’s large, hard form, and they gazed at each other for a long moment. “This is the first happy moment in months,” the King breathed.

Bilbo pushed his face into Thorin’s hair. “Me too,” he admitted. They held each other, occasionally stroking whatever skin they could reach, until their caresses grew slower and slower, and eventually they fell asleep.


	9. The Mood of the Council

Bilbo woke up to see Thorin sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly pulling on his boots. The window showed just the barest lightening of the morning sky. The lantern still flickered weakly, but the candle had melted into a puddle of wax.

Thorin looked over at his sleepily blinking lover, whose eyes were still swollen with crying, and stroked his arm with a warm, rough hand. Then he scooped up the beads on the table, dropped them into his pocket and stood with a sigh.

“I must not be seen leaving here in the morning. They all will think I ravished you.”

Bilbo smiled. “Well,” he said faintly.

Thorin couldn’t hide a pleased smirk as he turned away and shrugged into his vest and jacket. “Well,” he agreed.

Once he was fully dressed, he came back to the bed and stroked the dark gold curls one more time. “Bilbo,” he said carefully, “I recommend that in public today, we maintain our distance.”

Bilbo’s smile faded, and it was on the tip of his tongue to ask why. Then he remembered his musings from the previous night: he had accepted Thorin as his Master and King. He would not surprise him with mutiny—even well-intentioned—again. 

“Alright,” he breathed, though his disappointment showed on his face.

“Others will wish to interfere, and influence us both. We must keep our progress between us, and … and not….” Thorin fumbled, unaccustomed to explaining himself.

Bilbo saw his struggle and smiled again, reaching up to take the King’s hand in his own. He kissed it. “Alright,” he said again gently, gazing up with the beginnings of trust in his eyes.

Thorin swallowed, wanting to drop everything, snatch him up and… even traveling by eagle would be acceptable, to just get Bilbo back to Erebor! Back to the privacy of their rooms. But he took a deep breath and kissed the Hobbit on his forehead. Then he straightened and left the room, stepping silently into the corridor, looking this way and that, before walking as quietly as possible to his own rooms. For the first time in months, he had real hope.

***

Breakfast in Mirkwood represented a step toward the council. Bilbo could see it now, the clever way Thranduil—who had been a conspicuously absent, if generous, host—was gradually shifting the mood from the casual socializing of the previous night to a slightly more structured, but still loosely organized, setting. The tables were now in a long row, covered in white, like a grand dining table, with the breakfast foods on side tables like buffets. The foods Elves most liked were on one side, and those most favored by Dwarfs were on the other. Humans, who would eat a bit of both, wandered from one side to the other picking happily at everything. But the odd separation of the food once again showed the planning of the host: everyone tended to sit on the side of the table nearest their type of food, thus, the Elves and the Dwarfs, with random humans here and there, were now face to face at the table. 

And unlike the Rivendell dining table, which was wide and featured elegant centerpieces that represented symbolic barriers, the Mirkwood tables were somewhat narrower, and the only things in the middle were wooden bowls full of fresh, warm bread… which everyone liked, and reached for. And there was clearly no prohibition against talking across the table when you and some Elf had just grabbed for the same piece of bread.

“In trials of speed against strength, speed usually wins,” Legolas said tauntingly, holding fast to the bread.

“But when they are equally matched, he with the most patience generally succeeds,” Bofur returned, his mild headache vanishing as if by magic.

“Patience,” said Legolas, giving a sudden twist of his wrist, “is merely a kind word for the death of hope.” He brought the bread to his lips and regarded Bofur over it, eyes sparkling.

Bofur heaved a sigh of mock defeat and took a different piece of bread. “Fine. It doesn’t matter, I only needed…” he let Legolas finish.

“One?” The Elf asked politely. 

Bofur ignored him pointedly, spreading butter on his bread with a dignified air.

Bilbo sat beside Legolas, and this morning his amused glances had much less concern and warning in them. He felt positively sunny. He felt loved again, and although his brain told him he had not yet worked all the way through the labyrinth that was his and Thorin’s relationship, he felt as though his King had scooped him up and simply hacked a path through to the middle with his axe. And there were broken branches and falling leaves all around them, but they were in the center again, and steadfastly holding on to that feeling.

And there was tea, and warm bread, and butter and sugar. And eggs! And fruit. And bacon like Bombur made… how could one not be happy? The Hobbit’s cheerful face shown on everyone with beaming contentment. 

King Elrond, who had abandoned any concern for rank and precedent, and sat down as casually at the table as any laborer, glanced over at the Hobbit and paused for a moment. The little fellow was positively glowing, although his eyes were heavy. Someone had a visitor last night, Elrond surmised wryly. Then he turned to his food. His policy was to provide shelter and aid when requested. But unlike humans and wizards, saving others from their own devices was no habit of Elves. Legolas came the closest, Elrond mused, observing the Elf teasing Bofur. 

“Come now, you Dwarfs never eat fruit. You cannot live on meat and bread alone. Here is a strawberry. Just try ONE.”

Legolas put the strawberry on a small plate and pushed it toward Bofur, who stabbed it with his knife and said, “My, that was easy. Strawberry had its back to me, see.”

Bilbo shook his head. “You two need a new topic. Here is one. If … if I … if I wanted to give someone a … a present to say… that I was … happy to see them again… what gems should I use?”

The other two regarded him long and intently. Then they looked at each other. 

“Amethyst—“ said Legolas.  
“Rose Quartz,” Bofur disagreed.  
“Amethyst, it’s clear, quartz is cloudy—“  
“You think Amethyst is for everything—“  
“No, I simply prefer gems you can see into!”  
“Quartz is more soothing, milky, like jade—“  
“You only like stones that are opaque—“  
“And you only like ones that are clear!”  
“I like that which I can see through.”  
“And I like that which has a hint of mystery.”

“Well, you two are perfect for each other,” Bilbo commented under his breath, and the other two froze, staring across the table at one another. Then Legolas returned to his food, picking at it with an air that… was almost sulky, if Elves could be said to sulk. Bofur gave Bilbo a killing look and chopped the strawberry into halves and ate it.

Elrond smiled and took a long sip of tea.

Thorin entered the breakfast area and went to the buffet, calmly loading his plate with steaming slices of meat. He turned, located Bilbo, and they locked eyes for a long, friendly moment. Then Thorin bowed his head humbly and went to the far end of the table, sitting near Bard and Bain, and entering easily into conversation with them. Talk table-wide was now moving toward the upcoming council, and past attacks were being remembered and discussed.

Listening to those across the table, both Elves and Dwarfs became aware that the Orc attacks had been much more frequent than either of them supposed. Because the races rarely confided in one another, the pattern had not been recognized. Only the Humans, who were more likely to travel from place to place, and communicate with everyone, seemed unsurprised. Indeed, some of them had commented on it before but had been dismissed. They were thought too chaotic and short-lived to know much of anything.

But this gathering had the potential not only to bring the three races into closer, more communicative contact with one another, but to create a collective mind that could oppose the growing danger of the Orcs. And as a final bonus, there was even a representative of that small, jolly race that tumbled playfully on the edge of things: the Hobbits. 

Increasingly, as members of the upcoming Council recognized the importance and potential of this meeting, two names rose in significance among them: Thranduil, whose cold, haughty flippancy did not negate the fact that he saw the threat and took decisive action in bringing them all together (and skillfully encouraging their talk) and Bilbo Baggins, the Hobbit who—rumor had it—had been a slave of Orcs for some 2-3 years before being sold to the dragon, and had survived even that. What an unusual little fellow he must be! And (word went around) he read a bit of Elven, had traveled back and forth across Middle Earth several times, including the Blue Mountains, and now lived with the Dwarfs. Truly, he began to seem a rather cosmopolitan creature to many of those present. 

Thorin, listening silently to these passing comments, turned and looked at his lover. The curly hair, the big feet, the self-contained posture and steadfastly polite demeanor. His Bilbo, the cosmopolitan Hobbit whose star was rising in this increasingly respected endeavor. He felt a certain pride. Then he remembered the willow switch, and felt a certain horror. In this story, he was in danger of being classified as simply one of the many awful things Bilbo had endured.

Suddenly, his complacent comfort was gone, like smoke. Eyes wide, Thorin drifted from one group to another and noticed that… sometimes they stopped talking when he approached. This is never a good sign. He drank his ale and began contemplating the very real possibility that… Bilbo actually… deserved better than him. His hands grew cold and his stomach started to hurt.


	10. Committees

Now Thorin was impatient for the Council to begin. And end. But it was scheduled to start after lunch. The time between breakfast and lunch was apparently set apart for some sort of pre-conference brainstorming. As breakfast was cleared away, one of Thranduil’s older sons stepped into the center of the hall and announced with a clear voice that he was conducting a tour of the gardens and could take five, but no more than five at a time please, members, and who would like a tour of the gardens?

Bilbo stepped up eagerly, followed by young Bain (nudged by his father), a Dwarf from the Iron Hills, one of Bilbo’s Elven escorts from Rivendell, and Dori. Their Elf guide graciously learned their names, ensured they were introduced to one another, and led them away.

A moment later, as those who remained spoke rather disparagingly of anyone so pedestrian as to be fascinated with a garden, another Mirkwood Elf, a female with long, red hair, came forward to announce that she would be conducting a tour of the armory, archery range, and weapons training grounds, and would be happy to take seven. Legolas urged Bofur to go, and though Bofur didn’t want to leave the Elf’s side for a moment, it occurred to him that in going he would have something fresh to speak of at lunch, and would also learn more about his hero. He may have also hoped to impress upon the Elf that he could be very biddable when he chose. So Bofur joined the tour, as did Thorin, and Bard, who had an interest in archery and a secret weakness for red hair. Three Rivendell Elves and another one of Dain’s guards fell in, and they were led away.

Legolas waited until they were gone and then addressed the remainder of the group, now numbering twelve, and offered six of them a guided hike around the perimeter of Mirkwood, the area edging the plains. Not really dangerous, for no Orc had ever ventured into Mirkwood, but with a view of danger. Rather a hike, though… not for the weary and unfit… any takers? Such a challenge was pounced on by Nori, two Humans, Elrond, and the last two of Dain’s representatives.

The final six, two Dwarfs from Erebor, two Humans from Dale, and two Elves from Rivendell turned to see their host, Thranduil, coming from some shadowy corridor behind the throne. He gazed on them with all the warmth he could muster (admittedly, not much) and asked if they would be so kind as to accompany him to the Map room. There would be more refreshments there, of course. They glanced at each other and followed him rather eagerly, for breakfast was over, and it was not too soon for a drink or two.

Thus, Bilbo realized later, Thranduil formed committees. Or rather, coaxed them into forming committees without them really being aware of it. In no time, those touring the gardens formed a thorough understanding of one another, being the gardening types, and interested. It was nothing for their Guide to show them a row of squashes, and then ask the group at large if this was how it was done at their home. The eager interactions between Dwarf and Hobbit, Human and Elf transcended racial differences, for those who garden are a special breed, and have their very own dialect. When they find their own kind, their joy is almost enough to bring tears to the eyes. But their discussions were purposeful. What foods grew where, and in what soil? What seeds could be traded or shared? What fruits and vegetables could be kept and stored in dark, cool places, and exchanged? How were the seasons in this area or that? Any hints or tips about bugs? Bilbo and Dori fell into deep discussions, joyous to find that each knew the other’s language so thoroughly. Young Bain listened with growing interest, although he was very silent. As a growing boy, he wasn’t so much interested in gardening, but he certainly did like food! So… he listened, and showed a hint of the wise leader he would be much later in life.

At the archery range, Bard and Thorin were listening intently to the red-haired guide who demonstrated the various weapons and encouraged discussion amongst the attendees about which weapons were effective for which purposes, and strategies that involved cooperation amongst fighters differently armed. Thorin got a glimpse of the training Tauriel must have completed, and his respect for her grew. For the first time, Kili’s love of his Elven wife did not seem so incomprehensible to him. 

“Do you—“ he had to clear his throat, he’d been silent for so long. “Do you know Tauriel?”

The guide smiled at him calmly. “Of course. She is my cousin.”

Thorin nodded uncertainly. “She is married to my nephew.”

The Elf’s grin grew wider. “I know.”

“May I know your name? I could tell her I met you.” Thorin said, in what was an attempt at friendly diplomacy rather foreign to his nature.

“Lilien, my lord. Please give her my greetings,” she replied politely, and then glanced past him to Bard, who was gazing over at her with a bit of a dazed look. She flashed him a smile that made the color drain from his face, and Thorin looked back in time to see it. He nearly snorted. Really, Elves seemed able to cast a spell on every male in sight. Except him. He was already enthralled by a little Hobbit. Then he almost snorted at himself. It was all ridiculous. He stalked off to stare at the display of Elven armor. 

 

On their hike along the perimeter, Legolas and Elrond fell into serious discussion about the borders of the various territories, which Nori listened to attentively and inserted several remarks. The Humans and Dain’s men formed a group of their own, opining about the various methods of defending different types of terrain, mountains versus open land, and lake. They agreed that Laketown had been easy to defend until the dragon. An attack by air, that’s hard to combat. No cover. 

In the map room, the remainder of the guests gazed in awe at Thranduil’s massive map of Middle Earth, painted on a wall that stretched high overhead. It was so large, so elaborate, that had it been on the floor, one would have been tempted to walk on it, crying, “Now I’m in the Misty Mountains! Now I’m in the sea!” like a child. Thranduil had a very long, very thin, light stick he used to point with, and it was so long it bent slightly, and wobbled, and one had to maintain a certain amount of concentration to point it. But if it had been sturdier, it would have been tiresome to hold for long. Thranduil picked it up and made a few comments about various areas, and pointed them out. Then he asked a question about safest routes, and handed the stick to the nearest Dwarf. From here he had only to stand back and let them debate amongst themselves, passing the stick back and forth, and commenting on seasons and passes and natural hazards, time and obstacles, areas with few places to replenish provisions, and so forth. By the time lunch neared, they were quite experts on the geography of Middle Earth.


	11. Bilbo Addresses the Council

When they convened for lunch, the guests were startled to find that the tables had been separated again, and there were assigned seats. Each table sat four, and Mirkwood Elves served them. Each table seemed to have its own server, which was convenient enough. There was some grumbling at the assigned seats, but being guests, they all seated themselves obediently, and Bilbo found himself seated with two humans and a Dwarf. It didn’t take long to discover that each of them had been on a different tour, and their talk at lunch was very animated. Once again, the Hobbit marveled at the cleverness of the arrangement. Looking around, he saw that his gardening group had indeed been carefully dispersed, and there was one representative at each table. The discussions at this point were very much on task, and it was clear to the Hobbit that in reality, the Council had already begun.

At last, lunch was over, and Thranduil—who had not eaten with them—appeared with a modest crown of red berries, and invited the Council, as he now called them all, to adjourn to the map room. As one, the 24 guests and four Mirkwood Elves (counting Legolas) followed the King and entered the Map Room. Those who had spent the morning there were startled, for there was now a large, circular table in the center of it, and once again, cards indicated where one was to sit. The seating re-convened the committees by group, and when everyone was seated, the Mirkwood King picked up a small, silver bell, gave it a tinkle, and the meeting began.

“My fellow denizens of Middle Earth,” Thranduil began in a voice both silky and cold, self-conscious but commanding, “I thank you for traveling from your homes and accepting my invitation to come together to address this growing issue: the Orc attacks on travelers between Rivendell and Mirkwood. I understand that many of you come from areas far away, and your homes are not dangerously close to the area in question. But, as I hope many of you have seen today, our trading routes cross these lands. Travelers on journeys to distant relatives or new beginnings cross these lands. These lands are central to the entire region, and a threat at the center is a danger even to those on the edges.”

There were some murmurings of assent, and nodded heads about the table. 

“Before we begin discussing the attacks, I believe we must make certain we know everything we can about the enemy. My son, Legolas, who has fought them recently, will now give a report.”

Legolas arose, slim and confident, and gave a succinct summary of the most recent attack. That they traveled as a group of twelve. That they mostly fought with swords and maces. That their language was incomprehensible. That their mounts were dangerous as well, being more like dogs, who would attack along side their masters, than like horses, who dance away nervously when their master falls. That they did not seem to work together very well, although they fought side by side. They did not watch one another’s back. They did not return for their dead or wounded. They were… quite singular.

After answering several questions, the Prince resumed his seat. 

“Now,” said Thranduil, “I believe it is time to hear from our guest Bilbo Baggins, who has had extremely close, if unpleasant contact, with Orcs, and is closer to being an expert on the matter than anyone. Mr. Baggins?”

Bilbo’s eyes grew wide. He hadn’t expected to give a speech. He stared at Legolas for an instant, wondering if he had gotten a warning and had been able to prepare his own presentation, for it had been very smooth, and the Hobbit was more likely to stammer on painfully for several minutes until someone put a stop to it. Stomach falling, Bilbo stood uncertainly and looked around at the expectant faces of the Council.

King Elrond, seeing his panic, asked him smoothly, “Mr. Baggins, could you tell us how you ended up in their hands to begin with?”

“Oh, um, yes.” Said Bilbo, nodding nervously. “Well, you see… I always fancied myself a bit adventurous, and when I was young I did do a bit of traveling about the Old Forest, and Bree, and once even ventured down toward Tharbad, only on the plains along the way there are a lot of farms, you know, and I got chased by a bull into a cornfield and had to hide for hours and hours—“ (there were scattered chuckles around the table) “—yes, well it’s funny now but at the time I thought I’d have to live the rest of my life in that cornfield and I was thinking of all the recipes I had for corn. There aren’t really very many.” His audience was enjoying his recital now, and their smiles encouraged him. “If you’ve never had corn pie, don’t break your record,” he added. Even the stiff-necked Elves were smirking now. 

“Anyway, after that experience I rested at home a few years and then got the itch again, only this time I thought I’d head North, for I’d heard that bulls don’t like cold weather. Turns out that’s not true at all, but that’s a different story. Anyway, I was going along the way looking for the road that leads to Weather Hills, and I did ask directions—“ he stopped and brandished a finger. “I DID ask. I simply may not have attended to the answer—“ (more chuckles) “—but when I finally found a northward road and took it, I could see the hills in the distance, and I made for them. I was on foot, mind you, had my walking stick and bed roll. Slept at night. Walked by day. Picked apples off of trees, and did you know… every farmer from here to Carn Dum has a bull guarding their apples! I spent half my time up trees!” One of Dain’s guards elbowed his closest companion, grinning, who rolled his eyes, apparently at a shared memory. 

“Anyway, I was heading toward the Weather Hills and they never seemed to get any closer. Well, not as quickly as I’d expected. And eventually I realized that they were much bigger than I’d realized, and calling them Hills really didn’t do them justice. Well, of course, the problem was, I wasn’t heading for the Weather Hills. I thought I was… I thought I was, but I was heading for the Ettenmoors.”

All the smiles vanished, and eyes grew wide around the table. Everyone had heard of Ettenmoors, land of trolls and Orcs and other unwelcoming things.

“But—didn’t any of the travelers you met along the way tell you?” Asked Dori.

“There weren’t any.” Bilbo said simply. “I thought it was odd, no one on the road but my poor self, but I thought, well… it’s getting cold out. Maybe it’s the off season. I didn’t know. But no, there was no one out there but me and the bulls. Apparently, no one leaves Ettenmoors. Well, no Humans, no Hobbits, no Dwarfs, and no Elves. And one night, when I got close, I did hear a party coming toward me, but when I saw them… Oh—“ Bilbo put a hand to his heart, reliving that moment. “I’d never seen an Orc before. I’d heard of them, certainly, but to see them! I thought I was dead for certain. I ran and they chased. Hobbits are pretty fast, especially panicked ones, but I ran up against a river that was flowing too fast and cold for me to dare—that is, I hesitated. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have jumped in.”

“Why?” Asked Legolas, leaning forward eagerly, elbow on the table, his fine chin propped on his fingers.

“Orcs don’t usually venture into water,” Bilbo answered. “They hate it. Can’t stand it. Won’t even drink it. Certainly don’t go in it, unless they have to.”

“Not even to bathe?” asked young Bain with a look of horror on his face. He’d heard many things about Orcs, their savagery, their aggression… but nothing horrifies a 13 year old more than knowing that some creatures never take a bath. “But they must stink!!” He blurted, to a few nervous chuckles around the table.

“Oh yes.” Said Bilbo. “They do indeed, Master Bain. That’s why I could smell them when they attacked us recently.”

The Council was now glancing at each other and nodding. Any information they could gather could be helpful.

“So what happened??” Asked the older brother of Legolas, Orolan, the one who would be King. He was as rapt as Bain, listening to the tale. Bilbo, who had always loved telling stories to children, warmed to his task.

“Well! I stood at the edge of the river, and it was churning and rolling in the twilight, cold as ice and moving fast. I knew if I jumped in, my chances weren’t good. As I hesitated, the Orcs threw a net over me, yanked me back and tied me up neat as you please! My stick and bedroll fell there by the river, and I bet they lay there still, under a cover of dead leaves, untouched and waiting!”

By now his entire audience was spellbound. Even Thorin, who dimly realized he’d never heard Bilbo talk at length this way, never heard any of his stories, never known any of this… because he had never asked.

“They packed me over the back of a horse, much like they did Pim, you know—“ Bilbo gestured to Bofur, who nodded, remembering. “Later I realized that the horse must have belonged to some other unfortunate traveler, for Orcs don’t raise horses. They’ll eat them, but they don’t raise them.”

The Elves looked most pained by this. What sort of savage eats horses, their delicate faces said plainly. The Humans and Dwarfs looked a little less pained, for although horses and ponies were categorized more as pets, well…. Meat is meat. 

“So, they took me back to the Ettenmoors, trussed up like a pig for slaughter. I’ll never forget the first sight of those moist, dripping, rough-carved tunnels into the mountains, the huge, burning torches, the sheer noise. They’re a noisy bunch, are Orcs. They never speak to each other; they shout. And there’s always the clanging sound of metal being worked. But unlike Dwarfs, there’s no art to their work, there’s no beauty in their habitat, there’s nothing but the most utilitarian features. Stairs are rough, ladders and bridges across chasms are blunt wood just hewn together without any clever design or art. Not well made, either. Every once in a while I’d see one give way with several Orcs on it, and they’d all fall into the abyss, squawking in their rough way all the way down. And the others would watch them fall and then start looking for wood to build a new ladder. It’s a strange culture.”

“It doesn’t sound like a culture at all,” Bard opined quietly, eyes shadowed and worried. “What about children? Families?”

“Never saw any.” Bilbo said bluntly. “I don’t think they reproduce the way we do.”

“What, no females? No children?” Asked Nori in astonishment. Bilbo shook his head. 

“No families to speak of, no pairing off at all, although they did seem to separate into tribes, after a fashion, and wear markings on their faces that I grew to recognize.”

“No females, no pairings…” Nori repeated, looking astounded. “So … Orcs don’t have sex?”

There was a ripple of laughter around the table, for many of them had been wondering, but no one wanted to be indelicate enough to ask. Happily for them, delicacy was no concern of Nori’s.

“Not as far as I could tell,” Bilbo said, and then leaned forward and lowered his voice as if telling a secret. “And slaves are usually the first to know.” 

There was another round of uncomfortable laughter, followed by an awkward silence. Thorin had turned and was steadily contemplating the huge map, his face a burning red, and many around the table glanced at him and then at each other with eyebrows raising.

Bilbo, suddenly remembering that most of the Council knew rather too much about him and Thorin, turned a little pink also and hastily continued his narrative.

“They’d mark their faces with some sort of ink and I got to where I recognized about four tribes. Ah, one bunch had three dots on their foreheads, they’d just dip their fingers in…. well, I thought it was ink. It could have been mud, or blood, or… I don’t know. But they’d dip their fingers in and—“

He demonstrated by putting three fingers to his own forehead. “And another group had a streak down each cheek,” again, he drew invisible lines on his face. “And another had one right down the middle and would smear one side top to bottom so half the face was black and the other half white. The last group drew themselves masks around the eyes.” He nodded. 

“Did the groups fight with each other?” Asked Thorin, and it was the first time he’d spoken.

Bilbo’s eyes met his. “Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Baggins,” said Elrond slowly, “did you ever discover why they kept you alive?”

“Oh! Oh, well, yes, they do take slaves occasionally. Not very often, but apparently the High Leader or whatever likes to have a bit of a staff. He’d keep two or three slaves at a time… I think he was the only one. The Orcs would bring him captives as offerings, and he’d either kill them or enslave them. I think I’m the only one who ever got sold.”

“Why is that,” asked Thranduil, eyes narrowed, having been drawn into the story despite himself.

“Well, they were aware of the Dragon too, I discovered. I mean, I never learned much of their language but a few words, but I learned names, and I learned _slave,_ and I learned _fetch_ —I learned that one quickly, you can imagine. Um… _fire, food, no, hurry,_ and finally there was a word they spoke often, and they’d talk to each other and make gestures with their hands like something soaring overhead. I thought they were talking about birds. Only when they put me in a cage and started heading toward the Lonely Mountain did I start to suspect it meant _Dragon._ ”

“So you were… a gift?” Asked Legolas.

“Ah, no. I was definitely offered for sale, they got weapons in return for me. I didn’t know it at the time, but Smaug liked to collect unusual things, and in that part of Middle Earth, Hobbits are unusual. We don’t usually go wandering and get picked up like I did.” Bilbo confessed.

“You were very unfortunate,” remarked Orolan, eyes troubled.

“Well, no, I mean, in some ways.” Bilbo amended. “But in others… the fact that Hobbits are rare is what kept me alive. There was a … a Dwarf there for a while. An old woman. She fetched and carried along with me, and we spoke when we could. She’d been homeless and had wandered about until trolls had picked her up and traded her to the Orcs for… horsemeat if I remember.”

The Elves winced again, and all the Dwarfs grew somber and wide-eyed. “What happened to her?” Asked one of Dain’s men.

Bilbo looked down and his voice grew quieter. “She got older and one winter it was very hard for her… you know, her joints hurt and she wasn’t quick enough. One of the Orcs just got angry one day and smashed her head in with the nearest mace. She fell and moved a little, for a minute, but then she stopped and I knew it was over.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Thorin asked stonily, as if preparing for a very unpleasant answer, “What did they do with her body?”

Bilbo nodded absently, his face blank. “They ate her,” he said, and kept nodding for a moment more, his eyes very far away now, and it reminded Thorin uncannily of those dreadful weeks after he had caned the Hobbit for the second time. Trauma.

There was a long silence. Bilbo stood very still, staring down at the center of the table, his face blank and yet thoughtful. Finally he murmured, “That was probably the worst day. I felt alone in the world after that. I was sure that… the same thing would happen to me, and no one would know, or care. There’s something about that feeling, that you are completely on your own…” His head tipped a bit and he stood very still, his hands dangling down limply. 

Thorin rose uneasily from his chair. “Bilbo,” he whispered, and the whisper carried across the room. The Hobbit’s eyes moved to him, but they were alarmingly blank.

Elrond rose to his feet also. “Perhaps we should convene for a bit,” he suggested easily to Thranduil, who tipped his head cordially. 

“Yes. I am sure there are matters my guests would like to attend to in their rooms, or places in the palace they might like to explore. Let us return in two hours.” He turned and gestured to the Elven attendants who stood by the doors, and they opened the doors invitingly so that the Council could stream out and disperse.

Bilbo didn’t move until Legolas stepped forward and offered his arm, and then the Hobbit, moving slowly, took it and allowed the Elf to lead him away. Thorin came around the table impatiently, but Elrond held up a hand to forestall him.

“Wait,” he advised.

“Would you like to see more of the gardens? You didn’t see the flower gardens,” they heard Legolas say in his clear but gentle voice.

Bilbo drew in his breath and lifted his head. “Oh yes, thank you,” he said politely, but his eyes still looked rather fixed.

Elrond waited with Bofur and Thorin until the other two were gone. Then he turned to Thorin. “A delicate touch is sometimes more effective in cases like this.”

Thorin stared up at him with burning eyes. “You think I cannot be delicate?” He said in a thunderous voice.

“No,” said Elrond and Bofur at the same time.

Thorin’s shoulders slumped and he turned away, eyes flicking about the map room as if he wanted to take the torches and burn it all down. Well, he did want to.

“You wish to comfort him because it pains you. Legolas simply wishes to be of service. His own needs are not crying out to be met.” Elrond explained. 

Thorin gave them both one more glare and then swept around them and out into the Throne room, where he stalked about in no particular direction for a bit before finally heading off to his rooms.

“He’s Thorinating.” Bofur explained. “might take a bit.”

Elrond gazed after him, amused. “Thorinating.” He repeated. “Indeed.”


	12. Thorin Prowls

When the Council reconvened, Bilbo was absent. Thorin strode in, saw the empty chair, and felt his body temperature rise. He took his seat, face impassive, but sat like a stone and had a difficult time attending. 

Thranduil, with what was clearly his knack for organization, posited questions that seemed to draw forth answers from the de facto committees without effort. It was not long before the huge map was tinted with colored chalk, and punctuated by small, sharpened feathers, that were easily poked in, and when removed left barely a hole. Some were dyed different colors, and represented nationalities, or crops, or trade paths. 

Soon, Council members were given scrolls with smaller versions of the map, and more bits of colored chalk to mark them up for their own purposes. Teams formed, questions were put up for discussion, possible solutions were written down. It was all quite well done, and as soon as the first Dwarf sat back and stretched rather grumpily, Thranduil gestured for drinks and snacks to be brought in. He and Elrond made eye contact frequently, and both knew that the Rivendell king was quite impressed. He nodded often. 

Thranduil was pleased although he did his best to hide it. Mirkwood Elves suffered from a bit of an inferiority complex around Rivendell Elves, except Legolas, who didn’t suffer from anything around anyone unless they were singing off-key. That pained him. But as for the rest of it… while he was as pleased as anyone that the Council was working so well together, he didn’t particularly bask in it. He was still partly concerned with the Hobbit. 

Legolas had taken Bilbo to see the flowers, and watched as the Hobbit slowly came back from his far away place, and wandered about the garden, sniffing, and pointing, and asking the occasional question. But he looked exhausted, and still rather distant. Finally, Legolas proposed that Bilbo come up to the Royal quarters and rest in Legolas’s own bed. He could be alone there till nightfall, and the rooms were large, and airy, almost Rivendellian! And, although neither of them said it, no one would know where he was, and no one would bother him.

It was the Elf’s firm opinion that the Hobbit needed more time, more rest, more freedom from stress, more affection, more concern, and less Thorin. Simply put, the Dwarf was—even if he had learned his lesson about being too cruel and controlling, the King of Erebor was clearly hungry for Hobbit, and his first priority was re-establishing his access to Bilbo. That intensity, that visible yearning… Legolas just wasn’t sure it was what the Halfling needed. 

Of course, in the end, he was an Elf, and if Bilbo said to him, “I am ready to return with Thorin,” Legolas would watch in concern, but say nothing, and do nothing to hinder it. Whatever his private opinions, he respected the free will of others. But until Bilbo said that, the Prince felt authorized to intervene in whatever small ways he could.

So to that end, he escorted Bilbo to his own rooms, instructed him as to how to summon servants (and slid a stool over to the bell pull so the Hobbit could actually reach it.) Bilbo smiled at the gesture. It was very courtly. But admittedly, his eyes were heavy, and he had not slept very much the previous night. Or at least, not enough to build up his strength from all the crying he had done. His head felt heavy. 

_It’s funny,_ Bilbo thought. _This morning I was so happy, and I am still happy. I think I am happy. But at the moment, I am not happy._ He went to lie down on the huge Elven bed, and pulled the pillows down around him as he usually did. _That is,_ he continued to muse, _I am happy but I have a terrible lot of bad memories that I forget I have until something reminds me, and then suddenly I am just so tired._

He contemplated how odd it all was for a bit. Then he sank down into sleep and stayed that way till well into the evening.

 

Thorin was simmering through supper. The tables were scattered and Thranduil had returned to the more casual atmosphere of the previous evening. Most of the parties had grouped with their original fellows, Dwarfs from the Iron Hills at one table, Elves from Rivendell at another, to consult with one another on their new views of the matter, and establish what their own community wanted and hoped for out of this Council.

Thorin sat with Bofur, Nori, and Dori. Dori had received a note by crow-mail from Ori asking about how they all were, and about Bilbo, and telling them that Fili did a hilarious impersonation of Thorin polishing a bit of armor. (Dori didn’t mention that part of the note, for Thorin wasn’t terribly humorous on the best of days, and right now he looked like a volcano oozing sulfur.)

Bilbo was not at dinner, and Thorin glanced often over at the Rivendell table to ascertain that they had not simply tucked him behind someone so Thorin couldn’t see him. No, he wasn’t there. He wondered if Bilbo had been invited to dine with Thranduil and his sons in private. He wondered if Thranduil ever ate at all. Maybe they were nibbling a plate of berries together, he thought sardonically, his upper lip rising in a sneer.

Bofur, Dori, and Nori noted his mood and kept their conversation on neutral topics.

When the food was cleared away, Thranduil and his sons made an entrance, seated themselves with their guests, and the Council was treated to the unexpected pleasure of an entertainment. A dancing troop of Elves in costumes of red and blue took position on a raised platform some distance away, and to harp accompaniment, began a graceful yet rather thrilling rendition of the story of Smaug. One Elf in gold with huge wings was clearly the Dragon, and was eventually shot down by an Elf in black, who then bowed to Bard.

The company applauded, and Bard looked pleased but a bit embarrassed by being made the hero of the theatricals. The dance troop was replaced by a drill team in silver that displayed their skill at swords and fencing, and fell into a neatly choreographed dancing duel that had the Dwarfs roaring approval.

During the performance, Thorin quietly slipped away and went to Bilbo’s room. He knocked, and waited, and knocked again. Finally he turned the knob and looked in. No Bilbo, and no sign that he’d been there all day. He bit his lip and retreated, turning to pace up and down the corridor, eyes wandering restlessly. There was no doubt in his mind that the Elves were keeping Bilbo away from him.

And he couldn’t even blame them. But he did hate it. He cursed himself not having stuck to his course last night, for caring so much that he couldn’t just let it go, for having hurt him in the first place… but mostly, for letting Bilbo out of Erebor to begin with.

Yet… he had to admit… the time apart was clearly beneficial to the Hobbit. And as for Thorin himself, when he tried to sort his view of his lover, he could see it was evolving, and that his respect for the Halfling (and his concern) was growing. That could only be for the best. But this process of waiting and suffering, and yearning… he didn’t like it. And he didn’t think it needed to go on much longer.

He stood in the darkened hallway and vowed: he would get Bilbo back to Erebor. Somehow.


End file.
